


Brother

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: The Hidden Queen - Alma Alexander
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 09:37:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18140519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: Sif could have loved her, in another life.





	Brother

On her birthday there's a celebration.

People were gathered at the gates all the night before, ever since a gossipy courtier rushed from the meeting-hall to announce that the queen was in labor. They lit candles when it grew dark, and some left when it rained briefly around midnight. But more stayed, and by the morning the crowd was bigger than ever.

They cheered when her birth was announced. Sif's mother Clera keeps him inside and has the windows drawn shut. But hours later the king comes. Red Dynan stoops and takes Sif's hands in his own, leading him away, and Clera does not follow.

Dynan takes Sif to the birthing-room where his queen is still resting. Rima is a small woman, always polite to Sif and even his mother. Today, though, she turns tired eyes toward the door and does not smile for him.

“Sif,” says the king. “Meet your sister.”

Sif approaches. He hasn't seen many babies, and he's not sure of this one. The baby is red and squished, and not very regal-looking. With one exception. Sif reaches out a hand and touches the baby's fiery-red hair. Rima sits stiff and unmoving as his finger traces her cheek.

“Her name is Anghara,” Dynan says.

* * *

 

Anghara grows, and Sif watches from a distance.

First she a baby, a toddler, and he has no thoughts to spare for her. Then she is older – four, five, six – and she has no interest in him. Somehow this hurts worse than the disdain of the court, the way the king will stride past him without a nod. Sif is an acknowledged bastard, but a bastard nonetheless, and even his half-sister has no time for him.

But there is one day that they speak. Sif is eighteen then. Clera's chief guard has advised him to join the army, to make a name for himself. Or a reputation, anyway. He will go by the name Horun. And there, maybe, maybe...

He's thinking about these plans when he sees her. Quiet and solemn, she stands alone outside the keep without a single guard or servant beside her. Her hands are clasped childishly in front of her stomach. She seems to be watching the horizon, but as though sensing his gaze turns to look at him with unerring eyes.

For a moment Sif shivers. He almost turns around. Then he feels angry. Why should he fear a six year-old girl?

He walks over and looks down at her. She returns his gaze thoughtfully, tilting her chin in unconscious arrogance.

“You shouldn't be out alone,” he says.

The princess tilts her head. She is small and fragile, built more like Rima than the king – but that look, that stare, is all Dynan.

“No,” Anghara concedes. She holds up a hand. “We can walk back together.”

Sif stiffens, briefly speechless.

Anghara keeps looking at him. It's hard to tell if she knows what she's doing, the challenge implicit in her words. Sif wrestles with his response - then feels ridiculous. The girl is six. She's not trying to manipulate him, surely. This is no test, no question of his loyalties.

He takes her hand. And, again, he shivers. He feels inexplicably guilty.

For a strange moment Sif imagines himself acting like they've done this before. He could walk her down to the square, where they will find a stand with sweet-meats or candied fruits. He could buy her some treats and they will talk about the sort of things that interest little girls who will one day be queen. Sif could act like a brother to her. Smooth down her fire-kissed hair and chide her not to leave behind her guards. And he could even stay in Miranei, maybe. Become a guard here, at the heart of Roisinan, and be loyal to his queen.

Anghara looks at him with those cool gray eyes as though she knows what he's thinking. Sif opens his mouth.

He doesn't know what he plans to say. He never gets the chance.

“Princess,” calls the guard. March, Rima's loyal attendant, swoops between them. Sif finds himself standing apart, Anghara's hand dropping away. She meets his gaze for one square moment, then looks up at her loyal man. March bends briefly as though he means to pick her up before flicking his eyes at Sif and puts a hand on her shoulder instead.

“Please tell me if you intend to wander, Princess,” March says. He glances once at Sif – a long look, filled with suspicion – and then turns. Dismissing him. “We should return. Your mother will worry.”

Anghara nods. She walks back to the keep with her head held high, the setting sun casting light over her hair like a crown of fire. Sif stares after her and feels strangely helpless.

The next day he bids leave to his mother. And then he sets out for Calabra, where he can sign up for the army under a different name, and take his own destiny.

 

 


End file.
